


Blustering Blindess

by nerdyrose24



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Baker Street behind closed doors, Domestic Bliss, Drug Use, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, Light Angst, M/M, One-Shot, Temporary blindess, drug overdose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:15:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24982204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdyrose24/pseuds/nerdyrose24
Summary: Rated Teen for Drug use.This was a request from NightStarRaven: "Please could you write a fic of Sherlock going blind and being lifted and held by John so Sherlock's head is on his shoulders and John's deep voice reassures Sherlock who shakes with tears and shivers?PLEASE? I'd love John being the one to smell of his musk since he hasn't bathed in a few days and taking care of blind Sherlock!!!"Sherlock has been alone for quite some time, and it was enough to send him back into his habit. Except this time, he has made an embarrasing mistake and now he can't see. John is angry, but takes care of Sherlock and reminds him he is not alone anymore.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 72





	Blustering Blindess

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NightStarRaven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightStarRaven/gifts).



> Thank you so much for the idea NightStarRaven, I enjoyed writing this! I took inspiration from another of Benedict's series' Patrick Melrose, in which he takes some dodgy drugs and one of his eyes closes up. Hope you enjoy it.

Sherlock lay on the sofa like a lion in its den. The flat was a mess – even more so than usual that is. Not that Sherlock could see it, with the cloth tied around his head. The kitchen had once again been turned into a drugs lab and the stench of manufactured chemicals emanated even from behind the closed screen doors. Furniture was upturned, bullet holes punctured the walls and the floor wasn’t visible under the sea of junk. 221b Baker Street was a death trap. Although nothing in it was more dangerous than Sherlock Holmes. 

He had been alone for far too long. Days, weeks, he couldn’t remember. Mrs Hudson was away, John was gone and investigating the criminal classes was proving a less than worthwhile way to pass the time. Thus, he had fallen back into the old habit to quiet his nerves. Now he lay, with both eyes swollen shut from an accidental overdose, or maybe it was a dodgy mix. How humiliating, especially for a graduate chemist and someone who prides themselves in being a measured drug user and not an addict. The worst thing was, he was already itching for his next fix, which made him dangerous.

There was muffled swearing and fumbling before the door burst open. “Why did you barricade yourself in?” a voice demanded. Sherlock sat bolt upright and cocked his head in the direction of the noise. “Sherlock?” It was John, sounding concerned now. Sherlock was impressed he had managed to break through the wood he had nailed across the door from the inside in a frenzy. 

“Yes?” Sherlock said innocently. 

Bags dropped to the floor. “What is going on?” John demurred quietly, punctuating each word. He tripped and swore. When he spoke again, Sherlock imagined John putting his hands on his hips as he surveyed the room. “It’s like a snake pit!” he cried. 

“There aren’t any snakes, John” Sherlock corrected, exasperated, as he lay back down, throwing an arm over his eyes. “You’ve been watching too many action films.”  
“You’ve been on the drugs again, haven’t you?” John accused with despair evident in his voice. In response, Sherlock merely rolled over on the sofa and curled up into a ball. Taking that for a yes, John began to shout: “One week, Sherlock, I leave for one week and you fall apart! Why? Why do you do this to yourself?” 

Sherlock was quiet when he spoke: “I’m not an addict, John, I’m a –“ 

“User?” John laughed bitterly, most likely shaking his head at the same time. A moment passed. “Let me see your face.” 

Sherlock tensed, suddenly feeling tense and defensive, like a petulant child. “No,” he said.

“Let me see your face,” John repeated calmly. 

“No,” Sherlock insisted, and he began to scramble into a sitting position, ready to bolt, but John’s hands were on his shoulders, firmly pushing him back down and keeping him in place. Sighing, Sherlock hung his head. 

As John reached his arms around to untie the cloth, his body leaned closer too, and Sherlock could smell him. He smelled like a man, and Sherlock wanted this more than any drug. Alas, John pulled away, taking the cloth with him, and the blackness turned to a blurry pinkish-red. Sherlock shook, with vulnerability and sadness, and felt the itch come back. He wanted to feel better, wanted to forget. 

“Christ,” John muttered, and Sherlock felt ashamed as he heard him sigh too. Hands were on his face, forceful, turning it upwards as Doctor Watson inspected his eyes, not much he could do without a torch to check responsivity. The hands fell to rest on Sherlock’s thighs and John continued: “I’ve seen this sort of thing before. It looks worse than it is. Probably, with some rest and provided you let me get rid of all that stuff in the kitchen, it should clear up.” 

Sherlock nodded and bit his lip as he felt it start to tremble. He turned his head away again. “Come here,” John said, as his arms came around Sherlock again, this time around his shoulders to pull him close and under his bent knees to pick him up. 

Heart fluttering, Sherlock cried: “John?” 

“I said, you need to rest,” a voice said commanding, close to his ear, as Sherlock lay there, in John’s arms. 

Moaning, Sherlock buried his head more into John’s neck, draping an arm around John's shoulders. He could feel the tears coming. “I just – I feel so lonely when you’re not –“ 

“I know, but I’m here now.” Sherlock felt more than heard the words and at the same time, his body relaxed, tension dissipated. 

With his sight temporarily impaired, his other senses heightened, and he breathed in John’s glorious musk and felt strangely at peace, despite the war that had been waging in his mind. It was evident that, wherever John had been he had not been washing. A conference? Or was it Harry’s? He tried to think and decided to take a guess. Clearing his throat, he tried: “Harry’s shower not working?” 

They had started to move slowly, presumably toward the bedroom. “No there was no hot water in my room at the hotel for the GP’s conference. You never listen, do you?” John chuckled. They stopped abruptly. “Hang on, are you saying I smell?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock answered, before they both started laughing together. “But I like it,” he said more seriously. “It’s grounding, helps me know you’re here.” 

“Well I am here,” John growled, before continuing their journey. “Maybe I should stay with you, then, while you rest.”

At John’s words, Sherlock could feel himself heating up, but he was suddenly so tired and shaky from withdrawal that he doubted this would lead anywhere tonight. “Yes, that does seem, logical,” he answered, teasingly. 

Sherlock was lifted back in John’s arms as John lifted one of his legs to kick the bedroom door open and before long, he was being lowered down onto the soft mattress. A warm body laid down beside him and was lifting him again so that he was laying against someone’s chest. It was John’s. John was here. He was close to sleeping now, but shudders were still racking through his body. Strong arms held him in place. 

“John?” Sherlock whispered. “I’m sorry.” 

“It's okay,” came the soothing reply, as John rested his own head atop Sherlock's curls. “It’s okay.” 

Sherlock still sometimes forgot that he wasn’t alone anymore. Not even when there was no one there. Now, there was someone who would always care and someone he wanted to stay alive for.


End file.
